


You Become What You Hate

by PrancingProngsy



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Other, persona piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrancingProngsy/pseuds/PrancingProngsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams have this terrifying ability to show you what you need to see the most; what you don't want to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Become What You Hate

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be said that I hate writing in first person. But I wanted to post it anyway. Feedback is always appreciated.

            I now understand what it means when people say that ‘the silence is deafening.’ It means the air is thick with words unsaid and actions left undone. It means that it is so quiet your breath is like shouting and it echoes and you hold your breath to stop hearing it. It means that you can notice the buzzing underneath everything. It terrifies me.

            My mouth is dry, tongue leaden and for once, silent. My palms are clammy. The sword is heavy in my hand, blade dragging in the sand beneath my feet as I pause to take it all in. The wasteland is barren save for the skeletons of a few houses. If I tried hard enough, I could call it Ortranto, but dead. It was as if the city had been ravaged by some unknown disease. Dust coats the back of my throat. The hilt of my blade sticks to the rough, calloused palm that clung to it. _My_ palm. My breathing is shallow, quiet but audible. I make sure to breathe with my mouth open, careful with each breath. It’s all very strategic. My heart thunders in my ears. I’m sure _It_ can hear it, hear me, my breathing, my terrified heart pounding steadily in my chest. _It’s_ probably counting every fucking beat. Over. And over. Biding its time. My wrist flicks in agitation, swinging the sword through the air in a nice circle. It’s not a threatening move. Wherever _It_ is, _It_ knows this. The air tastes like blood, that unmistakable, horrifically familiar metallic taste that clings to your tongue, fills your nose; lingers. My tongue passes along my dry and broken lips. The trick is to appear to be less frightened than you are.

            It’s almost always the same. There is a reason for the large, bruise-like, purple bags under my eyes. I try to keep it from happening, keep it from even beginning like this. Unfortunately one can only stay awake for so long before the body forces sleep upon it. It always starts with dust and crumbling buildings. I can **name** it now. Ortranto. Where it all began. Where it will all finish. I find myself praising some god or other that it’s not my beloved Florence. Not this time. The sun is so high that it blisters my skin and my lips crack and bleed. Sometimes it progresses into a thick forest, with trees tall and foreboding that block out the sun and swallow all hope of escape. Sometimes my heels dangle off the edge of a terrifying cliff with rocks that present like a wide, wicked smile. No matter the landscape, there is always _something_ beneath my skin, this terrifying sense of something overhanging, something about to happen. I’m standing on the _cusp_ of something. It makes the hairs on my arm stand at attention.

            _It_ is always waiting for me. _It_ takes _its_ time. Plays with me, makes it damn near impossible to escape. Some nights it doesn’t have a face, just a swirling thickness of shadows that obscure any recognizable feature. Sometimes it takes the shape of my worst enemies. The Count is a familiar and popular one, with his sword and his dagger, his tiny smirk that suggests that he knows something I don’t. I’d think he were beautiful if he weren’t trying to kill me. Regardless of what face _It_ wears, _It_ aims to kill me, wielding weapons and sharp teeth with words that cut me to my core and claws that can rip into my chest and liberate my heart from the cavity it railed against inside. We circle each other like wild animals.

            Tonight it doesn’t have a face. There’s something more terrifying in the obscurity, I note. The dust hangs in the air; evidence of _its_ passing at a speed my eyes cannot capture. By now I know that I am dreaming, but that doesn’t bring me much comfort. I cannot wake. I have tried.

            _It_ knows I am here. _It_ has cornered me. My wrist twists again. I step, slowly to the side, a calculated move. I know how to fight. I will defend my life until my last breath. _It_ never dies. But perhaps tonight will be different. Movement catches my eye. By then I am nearly too late. _It_ steps from the shadows, as if the shadows have pinched off a piece of themselves and given it legs. _Its_ own blade is clasped in shadowy fingers, aiming to remove my head from atop my shoulders. I have died many deaths among these ruins; I do not intend to die another.

            The harsh sound of metal-on-metal breaks the eerie and deafening silence that had befallen us, echoing off the broken and empty houses. If _Its_ shadow face was wore any features, I am sure _It_ would be leering.

            Our battle is long and hard fought. Sweat drips into my eyes. My arms are tired, my body aches. It knocks the blade from my clutching fingers. It hits the sand with a dull thud, reminding me that now, now I am going to die and I’ll wake screaming like I do every night my eyes find rest. My lips purse. The creature circles me. Sometimes I think it is perhaps a depiction of what I consider myself to be fighting against. Restraints. Men and woman who seek to remove freedom. The suffocation of knowledge. Perhaps that is what those shadows are. _It_ presses the tip of _Its_ blade to the center of my chest. I hardly flinch, fingers splayed out beside me, still for the first time in what feels like hours. I stare at _Its_ obscured face, eyes fixed mercilessly upon it. I doubt the creature finds the fire in the depths of my stare anything but amusing. _It_ chuckles, a dry, wheezing, rattling exhale that fills the still air more than any other noise could. It resonates in my bones. The point presses against my sternum just a little harder. _It_ says nothing, but as I stare into the depths of _Its_ soul, I cannot help but feel as though it is probing into my own as well.

            It raises the blade. I do not shrink. **_I deserve this_. ** As the blade slices through the air, parting it with a quiet breath, the creature’s face shifts. There’s a smirk there now, lips twisted upwards into a cruel, masochistic expression of his victory. My heart stops before the blade can spill my crimson blood upon the sand. I know those lips, but the smile… Dear God the smile is something I have never laid my eyes upon before. Eyes quickly follow this sinister addition to the shadows. They’re leaving, turning into flesh and blood and those features, every single one of them I know so very well. Those bright hazel eyes that peer at me from the depths of a rapidly forming face, I _know_ those eyes. They are cold and harsh now, not bright and excited as they usually are. The blade descends as the rest of the face falls into place, confirming that question left unasked. I was right.

            I wake so suddenly that the screams die in my throat. I can hardly breathe. The heavy smell of paint fills my nostrils, familiar and yet it’s not as comforting as it usually is. My fingers are trembling, my eyes are wide. My limbs are heavy and stiff and they flail as I throw myself from the unfinished wood of my workbench in search of the pail of water I keep by the door. If I wash my face, I muse, I can wash it all away. My entire body feels damp and sticky. The water is cool and refreshing against my hands and face now, as I throw it upon myself. My hair sticks to my forehead. I’d like to think that the tremors that my fingers are experiencing are natural, that it is not the shock of an ill-constructed dream that drove my body to react in such a way. I press my wet fingers to my eyelids, rubbing for a moment before I let out a long, quiet sigh. My eyes catch on a bit of mirror I keep by my pail. It reflects, at present, the chaotic state of my studio; half-finished canvases, drying paints, malformed inventions that will never see the light of day. A soft smile touches the corners of my lips. My studio, it seems, reflects upon the state of my mind. Tender fingers lift the shard from the blanket upon which it resides as my fingers scratch at my bearded chin thoughtfully. ‘Calm down, Leo,’ I scold myself. Those eyes… Those cold, harsh eyes…

 

Those eyes were mine.


End file.
